


asynchronous

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:25:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin in Gondolin...</p>
            </blockquote>





	asynchronous

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Marina as part of My Slashy Valentine 2011

"Don't do this," says the pale one, voice low and with a timbre like oak and honey, unmistakably male, and the illusion is shattered.

"Quiet!" he says, and puts his hand over the lips he wants to kiss, given time and privacy he knows won't be snatched away by the idle caresses of the ever-spring breeze. "Be quiet now."

He takes what time he has, now, to trace them with his fingers; he draws away, but imagines their taste, dry and wanton on his tongue, which thick and clumsy with desire. The fury set in eyes that change colour like the sparking of a forbidden jewel only makes him want more, this indefinable thing in him to be stilled and sated beyond renewal.

  


"She is not for you," they say, all around him; it's in their eyes and their disdain for his sable heart. He objects when the human takes her hand and hears Huor's words in his mind, again, the same as they have thundered across his dreams ever since doom settled on the city like the weight of a deepening sea.

He smiles for his cousin, radiant and perfect; her light shines even when he kisses her cheek and mumbles, void of emotion, that the human is lucky to have her. Her laugh is clear, pure, but short.

  


It is as if a hundred years of wanting are held captive in this moment, before his release; they leave him in four streaks of white that land on red and luminous skin beneath him, and he feels light, almost dizzy, almost free. He has to hold himself steady until he is calmed; the moment it takes for his breathing to ease into regularity is long enough for his seed to cool and the redness to fade. He watches this as if observing from a distance, curiously, as if it is not his hand that rubs the viscid liquid into the last streaks of red, nor his voice that keens quiet, nonsensical lullabies that die on the still, thick, muggy air.

Dark still encroaches on this haven; the night has stretched beyond its few allotted hours just to serve him, and he blends with the shadows easily as the candle flickers out. It fascinates him that he can darken a warrior's skin like this, not just by hiding his light behind his own skin as rough and dull as the human's, but with marks that hide the fëa from within. He can barely see to retrace the marks he made but his hand finds then unerringly; the bruised skin refuses to mould to his touch and he presses down on the worst of it, knowing that it is blood-purpled and sensitive. The moan he hears is muffled and then cut short, but he still smiles for having caused it. It had not been difficult or elaborate; there was barely a struggle, but he had been rough. He had not meant for this to be a tryst when he slipped into the lord's rooms, only the slaking of a desperate need that was barely tamed, even now. He closes his eyes against the memories, fresh enough to leave his body weak and warm with desire - his hand in golden-blond hair, knotting it against escape as he whispers his intent until a blush stains the face of his prey the same red he wants to raise all over; dragging his nails through skin until wetness eases their way and languidness overtakes all but yearning; hoarse cries drawn with each twist of his hand and matching lunge into warmth, until the last of self-control founders...

He has to quell the urge to take Glorfindel again; it would not do for the pale one to find strength enough to deny him. Instead, he tastes the blood on his hands and imagines that instead of discomfort there is love in each scream.

  


The third time, in the cool glow of morning, is the closest that he feels to peaceful for all his time within the shining walls; though it is not slow or gentle, he is not urged on by some desperate need to claim or mark. He does not close his eyes; this is what he wants to remember, even though it is imperfect. Anar is low enough in the sky that shadows lie long through the window and mark skin with rippling patterns, somehow complementary to the way Glorfindel rocks below him. It is beautiful, almost perfection, but for the expression of pain he looks into. He leans down to kiss it away and wishes he was something more, something that could be desired and not slighted when they think he doesn't hear.

Instead, he is this; he slides his hand up from half-healed scratches until his fingers lie along the gaps between ribs that should not be so pronounced, and he doesn't object when Glorfindel's ankle rests awkwardly on his collarbone.

It happens soon enough; he grows tired, perhaps, or complacent, but after only days of near-bliss he finds Glorfindel gone from him. The room is empty when he enters and he spends the night alone, cold. He leaves, sleepless, at first light; he slips unnoticed along the outside wall and he only runs outside its shade when he has passed beyond its range. He screams low and ragged into the wind and lets the mountain air cool the fire that surges through him, demanding vengeance.

He wreaks it on the orcs that follow him; they are many but dwindle easily until he is tired, and the call of blackness and lassitude is a lure too strong to resist. He lets it claim him swiftly, and he knows only that the orcs are careless when they bind him; the tortures around him are primitive and brutal, but they only mark him, for he watches from a place beyond thought. The words thrown at him from servants are empty of threat; they do not negotiate, and he has no more need for pain.

He only bows when the Dark Lord comes to him, with golden pale hair and eyes that reflect despair, promising a power that would render him equal and above those who whispered, and a gift besides. There is little to do in return; a small favour and the ability to stake a claim inviolate is his. The chains fall from him with a breath and he runs unchecked until the shadows he can seek for comfort are pure and thin; they offer no shelter from his burden but what time has cared to blunt.

He spends the first night under the tainted sky in dreams that leave him unrested and with the marks still seared through to bone. Fire surrounds him as he runs with Idril's hand straining against his, and then falling with Glorfindel standing tall above him, reproachful expression indistinct against a red sky. This is inevitable; he knows it for prophecy, but still, he turns to the south, where destruction lies.


End file.
